


The Rockstar And The Fangirl

by gala_apples



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Anonymity, Background Poly, F/F, Groupies, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 03:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15572991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: Modern day groupies -free of coercion, or muddled thinking- are one of Griffon's favourite things about being the singer and second guitarist in a internationally famous band.





	The Rockstar And The Fangirl

**Author's Note:**

> About eighteen months ago, a picture was going around on my tumblr dash. It took this long to finally write the fic it deserved, but I got to it. [The picture](https://alyaludi.tumblr.com/post/155917350268/rt-pseudonym-dream-punk-band). I have a loosely imagined 'verse, but I can't say if I'll ever follow up, so consider this a stand alone fic.

Post show, Griffon is amped. She doesn’t often have bad nights on stage, and tonight just feels especially good. Though she probably says _that_ every concert. All she knows is her every nerve is prickling, her skin tingling, like the air itself is trying to make her come. She’s energy from head to toe, and now that their gear is stowed and double checked, the tour bus is moved to somewhere they’re allowed to park overnight, and they’ve got tomorrow’s schedule memorised, Griffon can finally use that energy. She can siphon off the intense buzz that comes from an arena of thousands shouting your lyrics back at you before she spontaneously combusts.

It’s not a new feeling. It happens most nights, and to more musicians than her. The general populace thinks Mick Jagger’s stated four thousand sexual partners is an exaggeration, but Griffon’s not so sure. If Sebastien Masturbates’ fourth album does as well as their third did, the opportunities to bang her brains out will continue to roll in. They’ll wash over her like waves on the shore, and there she’ll be, plucking the prettiest and most interesting of shells. Because, sorry morality police, Griffon’s all about the groupie. It’s an utmost turn on, being wanted by strangers.

Or at least she’s all about the modern day groupie.The seventies were a fucked up time, managers bringing grown men stables of underage drunk girls. Call a spade a spade, coercion of drunk sixteen year olds is rape, even if no one ever got charged. Griffon goes about anonymous worshipful sex very differently. For starters, there’s the Sebastien Masturbates sexblog. It’s a link or two away from the main website, but all the real fans know of it. She, Gavin, Geoff and Ben all write logs of their getting off. Sometimes the posts are accompanied by pictures with distinguishing features blurred out, if the other participant is okay with that. It’s not quite a porn blog, but so what if it was? If actors can write books and athletes can turn into celebrity cooks, why the hell can’t bands do porn? 

Griffon should maybe think about her life choices more than she does. But all her friends already sell their bodies. Basically. Her friends aren’t flat out hookers, but there is a thin line between the right and wrong side of performing sexual acts for compensation. Erik sells his sperm at a sperm bank. Griffon’s heard him explain more than once that he’s got multiple sets of twins in the family, that he’s fertile as shit. If his wife Jessica is around she’ll giggle and add that that’s like, literal, too. He really is fertile as shit. Mikey sells the promise of sex for drinks and cover charges. He’s flamboyantly gay, and he’s never not had a bear of a sugar daddy, since he got his first fake ID. Sheena is a professional dominatrix, wallet thickening for the privilege of wearing scarily thin high heels and stepping on men’s chests. With all of that as a base norm, it’s hard to feel shameful about having a sexblog.

The blog makes it clear that three things are mandatory. One- safe sex. Barriers are a must. Preferably birth control, if a uterus haver is present. Two- an ID corroborated by a nearby bouncer or bartender. There will be no sixteen year olds on Griffon’s watch. Three- relative sobriety. Griffon enjoys sloppy drunk sex, it’s true. There’s just something about riding someone’s fingers while every inch of your skin throbs and everything makes you laugh that really does it for her. But that’s what Geoff and Gavin are for; friends, _best_ friends with prearranged consent. If she’s fucking a stranger they have to be completely coherent, know what they’re doing. The guys have the same rule, Griffon knows, not that she’s often side by side when Geoff or Gavin is negotiating a hook up. They don’t exactly make a habit of fucking in the same location. Sebastien Masturbates might not include a single monogamous member, but they’re not having straight up orgies either.

Also on the blog is a Swarm sort of app. Not quite the same. They don’t need anything that auto-logs their arrival at any given spot. That said, when it’s time to get laid after a concert, it’s important to pinpoint yourself. Case in point, pulling up the website to log her own location shows Ben and Gavin have both already landed in their shag spot of the night.

God bless pansexuality, the club is full of prospects. Griffon’s not arrogant enough to think everyone is here for her, but there’s a good number. There are only so many bars near the arena they played at. The concert only let out a hour ago. Even the people who have to work in the morning are probably still too adrenaline high for sleep yet. All those factors together add up to a Sebastien Masturbates heavy crowd.

It’s funny, people watching in a place like this. For the people who have no idea who she is, she’s a wreck not worthy of being allowed in. She’s reeking of multiple layers of partially dried sweat. Her half shave could be classy, if it wasn’t a completely fuzzy mess, seeing as she’s been too busy to maintain a close trim. And worst of all, instead of a pretty top, or a cleavage showing low cut dress, she’s wearing a men’s tank top. Granted, it moderately shows the goods. The arm holes are so stretched that it’s less side boob and more the entire curve, aqua bra the only thing stopping her nips from seeing the light of day. It’s still not upscale enough for the Little Black Dress wearing women. From them she’s getting a wide berth, and an eye roll or two.

On the other side of the equation are the people who definitely know who she is. Much to the chagrin of the people who live for a martini and slinky outfitted weekend, there are a bunch of punk jerks wearing denim and faux leather and mildly offensive shirts and jackets and hats. Blame that one on the lead guitarist, thanks. Years ago, in the times of practicing in garages and renting amps, Geoff thought it was punk rock to have a name with getting off in the title. Griffon didn’t disagree, really. Maybe she laughed a few times as Geoff talked it up to Gavin, called him an idiot, but she never stopped swigging her beer and put her foot down. And now they’re Sebastien Masturbates, and it takes a certain kind of person to buy their merch and wear it in public.

Oddly enough, there’s a bubble of exclusion there too. Griffon’s confident that some daring fan will walk up and pop it, and following them will come others. By the end of the evening she’ll have her pick of men or women it’ll be fun to bed. For now, though, she buys a microbrew and uses it to put some moisture back in her mouth.

The third person to sidle up to her -the first and second having been dismissed for being too drunk and something feeling off, respectively- is a woman with long bleach blond hair. She’s thicker set, which is immediately interesting. Griffon sleeps with groupies of all sizes, races, and aesthetics, but this morning she fucked Gavin and he’s as light as a bag of feathers. This woman might make a nice contrast, if their vibes match. Selection criteria two’s definitely not a problem, she’s at least in her late twenties. She’s got a beer in hand, but when she starts talking Griffon’s concern about criteria three fades away. She sounds entirely sober, if a bit stammery from excitement.

“Hey, Griffon. Uh. I didn’t think I’d actually get to meet you, so this is awesome. But you probably hear that a lot, so. Uh. Sorry. I’m Lindsay.”

“Nice to meet you, Lindsay,” Griffon says. She aims for a disarming smile. Sometimes it works, sometimes it makes a fan hyperventilate more. Hopefully this time it works for the former. There’s a line between fannish, and so fannish it’s uncomfortable and unsexy. She doesn’t ask for a last name. The less details Griffon has about her stranger of the night, the more intriguing it is.

“I thought it was really cool you played Drives Nowhere for your encore. I was kinda worried when I didn’t hear it in the main set, thought maybe you guys had played it too much and it felt overdone to you.”

Griffon raises her bottle, and when Lindsay does the same, clicks hers against the groupie’s. “May you always get the setlist you want.”

“I’ll cheers to that,” Lindsay says, and takes a sip.

“So Lindsay. What are your plans for the rest of the night? Drinking, dancing...?”

“Night’s open, really. I know what I want, but that’s not all up to me.”

Griffon crosses her arms, aware that her new position is tugging her tank even more to the flashing point. Screw it, though. It’s not like there’s not a thousand pictures of her on stage in various stages of undress. Those lights get hot, and it’s not like there’s any sensible reason that men’s chests are allowed to be bared, but women’s aren’t. “What, exactly, did you want? Can you give me a detail or two?”

““My husband and I follow your blog religiously.”

“Your...” the skin on Griffon’s tattooed arms bumps like she’s just been dunked in cold water.

“Yeah.” Lindsay smiles. “That asshole’s the best.”

Griffon doesn’t feel half as bubbly. “You get that I’m not Katy Perry, right?”

Lindsay frowns. “In the not soulless autotuned pop way, or the lack of weird avant garde slutty outfits way?”

“In the ‘I don’t want to make out for him to jerk off to while you think about anything else and wait it out’ way.”

In Lindsay’s haste to put her arms into an unarmed position, she splashes a bit of her beer. “Oh man, no. You’ve got me so wrong. I mean, he’d probably want to watch, because that just makes sense. But I’m extremely bisexual, and you’re very much my lady-type. Also, Michael’s not even here. He’s got a four am job.”

“So you’re into me. That’s good.” That means it’s not some creepy consent problem. “But I’m only here one night. He’s supposed to be your forever. Ruining that isn’t a turn on for me.” Just because Griffon has no intention to ever get married doesn’t mean she approves of destroying someone else’s vows.

“Oh no. We’re poly as shit. Not only do we respect each other’s need to get off with others, he’d probably tell me to date you, if I could. Look. If I’m not your journal entry tonight that’s fine. Celebrities can say no too. But don’t think I’m not ready and available for some grade A pussy licking.”

“Well, when you put it that way... Where you want to go?”

“Yes!” Lindsay shouts. She even fist pumps the air in her triumph.

“Really,” Griffon huffs out, half a laugh, half sarcasm.

“Hey, I’ve been honest about wanting to bang you. Why are you surprised?”

They end up in a nearby hotel meant for exactly this; hour long trysts followed by pleasant-to-neutral blowoffs. Griffon would be mindblown if even half the customers stay in their room the whole night. Herself included. She just doesn’t have that kind of time. She has to be back to the bus by seven am, so they can take off for the next venue.

Lindsay holds it together in the cab, and in the lobby, and the elevator, but the second the slam resistant door glides shut Lindsay’s got her hands on Griffon. Lindsay’s touching her sides, above the low hem of her armholes. The way her thumbs are working Griffon knows any second now Lindsay’s going to go for her breasts. She puts her own hands on Lindsay’s shoulders. “Slow down! I don’t have all night, we have to travel, but I’ve got a few hours. We have time to kiss.”

“Oh shit,” Lindsay breathes in, like this is the thing that’s going to kill her. Not having a conversation with her favourite singer. Not getting chosen for a one night stand. No, what gets her is Griffon demanding a kiss. Griffon doesn’t get it, but each to their own.

Lindsay tastes like beer. Unsurprising, but also unconcerning. Griffon trusts her sobriety read earlier. It’s not the implication that prods Griffon, it’s the sensation. Every partner tastes different, smells different, makes different noises when they come. The details are what makes it worth it to blog. Other things of note are the lip gloss that make their kiss slick before the spit even starts to exchange, and the way Lindsay is holding her head still, a palm on each cheek. It’s a very powerful way of kissing, and makes Griffon wonder if Lindsay’s the type to hold wrists down too. Not knowing is a thrill.

But maybe not. When they break to breathe, Lindsay goes from power stance back down to stammering. “Oh jeez, I just remembered I have breath strips. Do you want me to-”

Griffon grins wildly. “Save it for round two, after we cat nap. That’s when we’re really going to have coated teeth.”

“Cat nap?”

“Like I said, I can’t stay overnight. If you want to stay here until check-out that’s fine, but I’m going to have to leave around six.”

Lindsay shrugs. “Might as well. If I’m not home at three thirty to send him off, no sense in getting up for normal business hours. But for now, let’s do things a first time before we start planning for a second time. Okay?”

That is more than okay with Griffon. She nudges in closer to Lindsay to get the first time rolling.


End file.
